


To Love What Is Mortal

by anthxnyjcrxwley



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Crowley’s existential crisis and depression, Crowley’s struggling, Getting Together, Kidfic, M/M, South Downs Cottage, THE HUMAN CONDITION, human mortality explored and accepted, previous child abuse/neglect (Lyra comes from a bad home)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anthxnyjcrxwley/pseuds/anthxnyjcrxwley
Summary: Somewhere in South Downs, a little girl plays in a garden. The sky is painted vibrant - gold and violet and a hot pink reminiscent of the now filthy dress she wore. Someday, she will grow up. Someday, she will grow old and frail and no longer be able to chase the frogs that give disgruntled croaks every near miss. Someday, she’ll return to the dirt and mud that she kicks up in her delight.But right now, she’s here.She’s alive and young and wild -She’s pointing at the first visible star and squealing for a demon, one who steps off the porch to chase her down. He scoops her into his arms and settles her on his shoulders to get her closer to the sky.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 88
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	To Love What Is Mortal

**Author's Note:**

> First off, thanks to my wonderful artist thenomansland and their incredible patience with me. Also thanks to Justjessiehere for being my cheerleader and the one to help carry me over the finish line - I'm not sure I could have managed without her.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it

go,

to let it go.

_Mary Oliver_

**_In Blackwater Woods_ **

Crowley is out late. 

It is cold. 

The warmer days have shaped themselves into something shorter and bitter, chill cutting the air and making Crowley’s nose turn pink even while he’s using a minor miracle to keep his extremities from falling off. 

Being ectothermic - cold-blooded - was inconvenient on the best of days, it was outright Hell on the worst. 

Crowley tucks his coat around him a little tighter as the first white flakes fall - it is a heavy black thing, lined with fur at the hood. It hugs his waist, belted to keep closed - he had gotten it when he’d been playing Nanny Ashtoreth and he had to stay put in cold weather for the winter. Gloves, too, although for now he simply keeps his hands tucked neatly in his pockets. 

He imagines being at home in his warm bed, that would be better for him, but he can’t bring himself to turn his feet back towards the Bentley. 

It’s one of _those_ nights.[1] The sky is calling him and Crowley is restless, helpless but to follow. He can’t see the sprawl of sky past the clouds, dusk grey and bleak. But he knows. Soon enough, if it wasn’t already, Sirius will be twinkling above them all. 

So Crowley walks to burn off the energy, anything to ease the crawling under his skin. 

Evening wears on and Crowley takes a moment to pause, standing on the sidewalk by St James Park. 

Bathing in the strange almost periwinkle light of a winter sunset, barely making it past the clouds. The world seems strange. 

It is, after all, still standing. 

Crowley is still standing to witness it. 

His eyes track over the scene before him, both fortunately and sadly lacking the birds that he occasionally dips below the surface when he gets too deep in thought. 

It is, however, inhabited by a few other creatures. 

A scraggly dog trots beside an older woman, who is nearly consumed by the fur lined coat she wears. On a bench, a young man sits with legs crossed, book open on his lap. He seems unaware of the woman and her dog as they pass. 

Crowley spots the girl three benches away from the young man, watching the small dog with interest. She looks up at the woman as she passes, legs dangling over the edge of the bench, but she doesn’t stand or speak. 

Like Crowley, she looks cold. Instead of hunching into her coat she simply shakes. He can see her shivers from where he stands. His eyes scan for, perhaps, a parental figure. 

The park’s rather empty, though, and her expression looks-- 

Lost, her eyes darting about for answers to the questions her mind keeps turning over but finding nothing. 

Crowley’s seen that expression on himself in the mirror. He’s not sure when he made the decision to approach, but his feet carry him towards the bench and once he realizes it he can’t make himself stop. 

“Hey.” Crowley’s voice is a bit softer around the edges than he’d like to admit when he reaches the bench, standing in front of it, a few feet away in hopes not to scare her. 

Wide brown eyes snap to him and he holds his breath for a moment. 

“Hi.” Her voice is terribly small and Crowley hesitantly edges a step or two closer. 

“Are you cold?” Crowley knows the answer, of course, though he isn’t surprised when she shakes her head, tight brown curls bouncing with the motion. Her brows furrow, warm tawny skin bunching up in the middle. He could let it go, but Crowley’s always had a bit of a soft spot. 

He shrugs off his jacket and reaches out to drape it over her shoulders, though he’s careful to keep contact to a minimum, aware of the slight initial flinch. 

It only takes a moment for her to melt into the slight warmth the jacket retained, eyes glancing over his face again. Re-evaluation. 

Crowley risks lowering himself down onto the bench beside her and has to hold in a hiss at the cold surface. He’s already holding in his own shivers and if he doesn’t get her somewhere warm soon he’s going to have to resort to a miracle[2] before his muscles just freeze up. 

“Can I ask where your parents are?” He asks, and then adds with a barely there crooked smile - “You don’t have to tell me.” He knows that cautious look, has worn it far too many times himself not to understand the wariness. Quiet reigns for a while. 

“My mom said she’d be right back.” The girl says, finally looking away from him, eyes scanning the park. Vulnerable - if only for a moment. Her dubious gaze lands on him once more. 

Crowley hums, looking ahead nonchalantly. 

“Wanna use my cell?” He offers, and tips his head to meet her look - although she can’t tell through the dark lenses of his glasses. He still feels the effort is important, especially when she relaxes the tiniest bit. Probably imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t spent thousands of years watching a fussy[3] angel’s body language. 

“I-” She pauses and Crowley hums. 

“It’s alright.” He assures and pulls out his phone, tries not to allow the fumble to show. 

“I dunno know her number.” She admits and here it is - the tremble in her voice, the way her eyes squint, nose wrinkling stubbornly. Crowley always sees so much of himself in children; he knows too well how being that _lost_ feels. 

“Here.” Crowley says, and hands the dialed phone to her.[4]

Lyra Miller reaches out and takes the phone from him. He apologizes to her silently but watches her press the call button, watches her bite her lip when the tinny voice from an answering machine answers. Nasally and curt, Crowley wants to travel down that phone line and tear her apart. 

He can deal with his rage later. 

For now he studies the way she hangs up, the way her thumb hovers over the end call button for a few seconds too long. 

Crowley bites his tongue before he says - “Want to go somewhere warm? I know a bookshop. You can call your mom again there?” He offers it up with a gentle voice - or as gentle as Crowley could get.[5]

She cradles his phone and refuses to look at him for nearly a minute, focusing on the phone screen instead as she turns it over in her mind. 

Finally, she gives a slow nod, still grasping his phone. She opens her mouth and he shakes his head easily - “Hold onto it. Try again when we get there, yeah?” He says and then pushes himself to stand. 

“C’mon.” He offers a hand out to her, and she holds the phone in one hand before standing. His jacket stays balanced on her shoulders - but only barely. If it had been anyone else’s jacket it would’ve slipped from her shoulders, but his knows better than to do such a thing. 

A small hand slides into his own. She makes a surprised noise - “You’re so cold.” 

Crowley smiles slightly. “It’s normal, no worries.” He assures, despite the stiffness in his joints as he carefully leads the way out of the park. 

They walk hand in hand for a few moments. 

“What’s your name?” She asks, and it only startles him a little. He toys with the idea of giving a different name, something that she could tell her mother, something that doesn’t precede him in London. 

Ashtoreth comes to mind. 

“Crowley.” He surprises himself, “You can call me Crowley.” He gently swings their hands. “What can I call you?” 

She looks thoughtful for a moment, as if she might give him something spectacular - a title, perhaps. 

“Lyra.” She settles on, quiet. 

The first time Lyra smiles since being around Crowley is when she opens the door to the bookshop. 

She leads the way in, Crowley trailing behind one hand holding hers while the other keeps the door to the bookshop held open. 

“ _Crowley_!” The call is as light and pleased as ever[6], but when Aziraphale rounds the corner he visibly starts. There’s a few blinks and then he draws himself up, straightening his waistcoat a bit as if they’d caught him doing something improper. 

“Oh. You didn’t tell me we’d have a _visitor_.” Aziraphale gives him a look and Crowley only shrugs - it’s not as if he could have predicted their current situation. Said situation drops his hand to wave slightly at the angel. 

“Hi.” She says, voice considerably more relaxed than the first time she met him. Crowley wants to attribute it to the angel’s soft appearance and the general energy he tends to emit when he’s not focused on running customers out of the shop - genial, that is. Most likely it’s more due to the fact that the shop is cozy, running a bit higher in temperature than it used to because Aziraphale _is_ rather soft. It certainly helps thaw out Crowley’s joints and his shoulders slowly relax. 

Aziraphale gives her a slightly strained smile and Crowley tries to beam a _be nice_ simply by staring, but he doubts that it fully gets through. 

“Hello, dear.” He greets and takes a deep breath to compose himself - Crowley knows that action far too well. Still, at least he’s kind enough to hold his hand out. 

“I’m Aziraphale, what’s your name?” Crowley decides to bring him some of those strawberry pastries he likes so much later if just for the effort he’s making. 

“Lyra.” She says and sounds slightly frustrated, turning her gaze on him as if _he_ should have introduced her. His brows lift and he gestures his hand loosely to convey a silent _go on_. 

She huffs, but hesitantly reaches out. Aziraphale lightly shakes her hand and then lets go, probably aware of her state just as much as Crowley had been - especially since he could sense her far better than Crowley. 

All of Crowley’s ability to do feels muffled, like trying to listen to someone speak underwater. It’s so hard to tell which feeling is which, and strong ones are like trying to understand someone screaming into a pillow. Loud, certainly there, but so unintelligible it’s easier to simply tune it out and go about his business. 

In that way, Crowley tends to be more disconnected from the world than Aziraphale is. 

He doesn’t necessarily dislike that - especially after enduring the fourteenth century. 

Aziraphale’s hand brushes his elbow and he starts a bit. He still isn’t used to gentle touches like that, though they’re far, far more common than they used to. He blinks at Aziraphale’s concerned expression. 

“You’re so cold, both of you. Come on, I’ll make some cocoa.” A glance at the girl, “Hot chocolate. Marshmallows?” 

She smiles again and Crowley melts a little - Aziraphale has the same affect on him. 

The angel ushers the pair of them into the backroom where he tugs off a blanket that most certainly _hadn’t_ been on the couch earlier to wrap it around the girl’s shoulders. She climbs up onto the couch, dragging all her layers like some sort of ragged royalty and Crowley perches beside her, sprawling his legs out in front of him with a heavy sigh. 

Better, certainly. 

Aziraphale disappears to go scrounge up what he needs to make cocoa the traditional way - it always has a tang when it’s done by miracle that he claims he doesn’t like. Crowley’s pretty sure he doesn’t taste it because it stings more like divinity to him - not that it isn’t wholly unpleasant. Bit like a spice, really. 

“You want to try calling your mom again?” He crosses his arms as he leans back into the couch cushions, watching her from behind his sunglasses, head tipped towards his own shoulder. 

“Yeah.” She mumbles, and Crowley reaches over to scan his fingerprint. The phone unlocks with a soft noise back to the dial screen and the number still sits there. 

Lyra calls again and this time, after the voicemail message, she speaks. “Momma, I’m at uh--” She takes a moment to recall the name of the shop, obviously trying to remember their approach. “Uh. A. Z. Fell and Co.” Her voice is a bit stilted, hesitant as if unsure she said it right. Crowley nods encouragingly. “It’s a bookstore. Mr. Crowley showed me. I dunno when it closes. This is Mr. Crowley’s phone so-- if you call back he’ll probably answer.” She’s nearly whispering by the time she gets to the end of her message and Crowley knows his fingers are digging into his own upper arms, but it’s hard not to be upset when her voice struggles so hard to stay steady. 

Aziraphale chooses that moment to reappear with two mugs of hot chocolate with the little candy marshmallows floating in them. Some of Crowley’s tension eases at the sight of the angel; beside him he’s vaguely aware of Lyra hanging up the phone. 

Aziraphale holds out the mug for her, making sure she has a steady grip before letting her hold it for herself. 

The second mug gets handed to Crowley with a look that plainly says _drink it, stubborn fiend_. Crowley gives in - mostly because he still can’t feel his toes. 

Aziraphale perches himself in his armchair that sits across from the couch on the other side of the coffee table. Crowley has felt like the distance spans oceans before - still does sometimes. 

Tonight, however, isn’t one of those nights.

“So.” Aziraphale starts. 

Lyra falls asleep wrapped up in Crowley’s coat, leaning up against the arm of the couch. 

Aziraphale is clearly exasperated as he gathers up the empty mugs from their hot chocolate. 

“Be a dear and fold that for me,” the angel whispers, nodding towards the blanket that had been squished between the girl and the demon. Crowley carefully picks it up, folds mimicking the way it looked earlier. He sets it on the back of the couch where he had been seated moments before. 

He’s quiet as he creeps over to take the phone from Lyra’s limp hand, following Aziraphale out of the backroom towards the set of stairs in the back of the shop. 

“You can’t just _take_ children,” Aziraphale finally says and Crowley sighs. It had been a while coming. 

“I didn’t take her. Her mother left her in the park. I don’t know how long she’d been there, Aziraphale. She was _shivering_.” He pointed out as they climb the stairs. 

“What if she’d planned to come back?” The angel points out and Crowley grimaces at this - more of a snarl, really. 

“She wasn’t going to. She didn’t pick up either of her calls and still hasn’t made the effort to call back. It’s been hours, angel. I sincerely doubt that it’s a _mistake_.” Crowley’s voice holds a bit more venom than he likes, but he clears his throat. “Just-- I’ll figure this out tomorrow. Let her take the couch tonight.” 

“I’m not going to kick her out. Of course she can have the couch tonight.” Aziraphale scoffs, but gives him a significant look. “You can’t expect her to stay here, though. The shop’s not fit for a child. Besides, shouldn’t we be calling the police or something of the like to find her mother for her?” 

“No.” Crowley nearly cuts him off as they walk into the sad storage space that had once functioned as a flat. Aziraphale never uses it for that anymore. 

“What do you _mean_ no?” Aziraphale spins on his heel to face him and Crowley stops mid-step, staring at the angel. 

“Her mother doesn’t _want_ her,” Crowley points out, voice low. “Don’t you get that?” Aziraphale gives him a blank sort of look and Crowley continues impatiently. “They’ll either give her back to a parent that’ll do the same damn thing all over again, or she’ll go into the system. Do you know how many foster homes don’t-- You’ve read the books. There’s so many stories. I’m not going to just let her go through that.” He’ll deny his voice shaking on the last bit until his existence is ended.

“And what do you plan to do, dear? You can’t just-- _confiscate_ a child.” 

“I can,” Crowley says, stunning himself. There’s quiet between them and Aziraphale starts to go soft around the edges in that way that makes Crowley want to squirm. So he frowns instead and pushes on - “I can and I will. Why not? She’d be better off with me than a human, anyways. I’ll--” He struggles for a moment, hands gesturing once more. Crowley fights with language more than he likes. 

“Dear--” 

“It’s not that hard. I can-- documents, right? Paperwork. Your sort are good at that. Help me out with the right ones and a few little nudges of my own and we’d be in the clear. Her mother wouldn’t even look for her.” Crowley swallows the desperation that he can feel bubbling up under his skin. He can’t leave her this way - can’t let her go back to _that_. He-- if he doesn’t calm the brewing storm he’s going to have trouble breathing. 

Aziraphale glances towards the ceiling and then closes his eyes. 

Crowley can’t tell what the feeling that is radiating from the angel is, so he shuts it out. He bites his tongue, holds his breath-- 

“ _Crowley_ -” It’s torn. Crowley knows that tone, knows he almost has him. 

“I can’t let her be _thrown away_ again.” He blurts it out and the angel opens his eyes, looking pained. “Aziraphale--” 

A warm hand lands on his elbow. The angel’s closer than he was a moment ago and Crowley blinks, almost alarmed. It burns even through the fabric of his shirt, spreads warmth along his whole forearm and up to his shoulder. A shudder wholly unrelated to the cold. 

“Alright.” Aziraphale sounds like he’s soothing a spooked horse.[7] “Alright, dear. We’ll-- figure something out.” He seems worried and Crowley thins out his lips. 

  
  


There’s a silence between them for a few moments, Crowley trying to gauge if Aziraphale is merely placating him or if he means what he says. 

“We’ll figure something out.” Aziraphale’s voice is gentler this time, the hard edges about him softening. 

That’s the horribly fascinating thing about Aziraphale - no matter how soft he appeared, how soft he chose to be, he could cut with his words, could tear him down with just a look. Crowley would admire it if it hadn’t decimated him before. 

Crowley nods slightly, just a dip of his head. 

They seem to breathe at the same time and Crowley looks away, brows drawing together as he swallows. 

The hand on his elbow squeezes lightly before sliding away, fingers dragging along the material of his shirt in a way he wants to see more in - Crowley _aches_ for it to mean _something_ , anything at all-- 

He shakes his head, swallowing thickly and stepping towards the stairs. 

“You’ve still got that computer[8], right?” He asks. 

“I do.” Aziraphale confirms, and follows him as he hikes up the stairs to the second floor of the shop. 

It’s really used as storage space these days, nowhere near the flat that it had been intended to be when the building was first constructed. However, Aziraphale has kept his office in what was supposed to be the bedroom. Crowley knows this because the first time Aziraphale had done his taxes himself, he’d called Crowley over in a fit of frustration. 

“What, exactly, do you intend to use it for?” The angel’s voice comes from behind him as he picks his way through the mess of books and papers that are strewn about the room. 

“Research.[9]” 

Crowley is half dozing in the angel’s armchair when he becomes aware that a certain someone has awoken. 

The tugging at his sleeve makes him hum, lifting his head and blinking blearily. His glasses are crooked and he lifts a clumsy hand to hurriedly fix them, but the hand has already left his arm. 

Crowley’s heart jumps to his throat. 

“Mr. Crowley?” The voice is small, reluctant, and Crowley finds himself straightening on instinct. He knows that tone of voice and he reaches up to push a hand through his hair. 

“What is it?” He prompts when Lyra doesn’t immediately answer, a grimace twisting her lips. 

“I need to go to the bathroom.” She sounds embarrassed and Crowley hums a gentle noise, pushing himself to stand. He stretches, back popping lightly, and then offers his hand. 

“C’mon. I’ll show you - bit of a maze, isn’t it?” He says as kindly as he can manage, nodding towards the rows of shelves and the haphazardly stacked books. 

Lyra stands for a few moments, biting her bottom lip, before she finally takes his hand. He guides her through to the stairs that lead to the flat. 

Crowley can hear typing and his chest warms - Aziraphale must still be at it. Later, he’ll have to find them reservations at the Ritz as thanks. 

For now, he expands his power, creates a bathroom. He expects it to be nice, to be modern, and so it is. It’s tucked into a side room. He leads her through the mess on the floor and lets go of her hand when they reach the bathroom to let her take care of herself. 

While she’s inside he walks back to Aziraphale’s office, leaning up against the doorjamb of the room tucking his hands into. He tucks his hands into his pockets, not sure what else to do with them. 

Aziraphale either doesn’t want to acknowledge him, or truly doesn’t realize that he’s there, but Crowley takes the moment to take in the scene. 

Copies of papers are stacked in seemingly nonsensical piles around the desk that the angel sits at. Crowley knows better than anyone that the angel has his own organization system - Aziraphale once lectured him for an hour about it a couple of decades ago, when he’d moved a book from the coffee table back to the shelves. 

The angel’s glasses are perched on his nose and he’s typing by using his two pointer fingers to painstakingly put together each word. Hunching over in his shitty desk chair, Crowley finds that even now Aziraphale looks awfully beautiful. 

Maybe it’s because Crowley knows what he’s doing. Maybe it’s because he _is_ beautiful. Maybe it’s because-- 

“Mr. Crowley?” Lyra’s voice is small beside him and he startles, straightening up from the doorjamb to look down at her. 

In the same moment, the typing stops and he can feel the weight of the angel’s gaze on the two of them. 

He always could tell when he was looking, whether the angel intended it or not. 

“Ah. You’re awake, my dears.” Aziraphale greets and Crowley’s heart just about breaks through his ribcage[10]. 

Lyra blinks at him and then turns her gaze up at Crowley. 

They’re a deep, dark brown and Crowley finds himself taken even more - wants to wrap himself around the girl and tell her… everything he hopes she knows. That she is good, that she is wanted. 

He gives a slightly wobbly smile. He hopes that it isn’t too noticeable. 

“Did my mom call?” She questions and Crowley’s smile immediately withers. He closes his eyes, hidden by his sunglasses, letting out a soft breath. He digs his hand into his pocket for his cell phone[11]. He peers at the screen to look and- 

“She didn’t,” Crowley answers, and he can see the moment it seems to _really_ register on her face. Her lips twitch and she presses them together, brows knitting together. She clenches her small hands into fists and both the angel and the demon find themselves frozen in the face of a child’s grief[12]. 

“Oh.” The word is small, broken.Crowley finds himself kneeling before he can think better of it. He can see her eyes getting glossy and he parts his lips to say something, but Lyra is already shaking her head. She raises a small fist up to scrub at a tear that spills over, but Crowley knows all too well how it goes. Once the wall has broken, it’s so hard to piece back together. 

“Lyra…” His voice so soft, brows furrowed as he reaches a hand out into the space between them. 

Lyra sucks in a few deep breaths, desperately trying to control herself. 

“ _Why?_ ” She asks and Crowley’s heart _breaks_. The same moment she sobs is the moment that his hand closes around her shoulders. She doesn’t flinch from him and he carefully pulls her into the circle of his arms, hand cupping the nape of her neck and guiding her to rest her face against his shoulder. 

She shakes apart there, hands eventually rising to curl in the front of his shirt. 

“It’s going to be alright,” Crowley whispers, because he can’t offer much else. Can only promise that it will get better. “It’s going to be alright,” he says reassuringly and clears his throat. 

Vaguely he’s aware he’s begun to sway them ever so slightly back and forth. Footsteps tap against the floor and there’s a rustling of clothes as Aziraphale kneels down beside the two of them. 

Crowley meets his gaze over the girl’s shoulder and presses his lips together. The angel has that _look_ on his face. It’s not quite pity, but he’s sad, Crowley can tell. 

Aziraphale reaches out and brushes his hand over her back. She tenses at first, but Aziraphale’s presence is warm and gentle in that moment. The angelic grace behind it must be soothing because she relaxes slowly. She trembles still, but the tears at least have slowed. 

It goes a bit like this: 

Crowley, according to all existing paperwork and records, adopts a little girl named Lyra. 

He takes her home to his flat in Mayfair[13] where she cries every day for a week. He comes to find, very quickly, that the flat itself doesn’t help her feel better in the slightest. Bleak is an aesthetic choice, partially also fueled by the fact it had never fully felt like home for Crowley - one that he found complimented his moods perfectly well _thank you very much, angel_. For a girl already feeling lost, it certainly wasn’t a comfort. 

No amount of new clothes, new toys, a bed all her own - it never quite manages to quell the tears. It seems, as Crowley had feared, that she needs to work through it bit by bit.

And so she asks questions.

In fact, Lyra asks Crowley some of the hardest questions he’s ever encountered. Crowley does his best to give her the truth, for she deserves it[14]. 

The worst ones are always the _why_ s. 

Crowley wishes he could give her a concrete answer, could provide some logic, but cruelty - in his experience - follows very little reason. He tells Lyra this quietly over a dinner of mac and cheese, her hair now tied in braids, wearing a blue dress that she picked out herself. 

He tells her quite firmly that she could not do anything that would warrant any kind of cruelty, that she does not have to apologize for her existence. 

They visit Aziraphale’s shop every other day and Aziraphale gives him significant looks over Lyra’s head when they share dinner out. 

It’s a quiet evening when Aziraphale confronts him in the kitchenette of the shop. Lyra waits in the other room for hot chocolate, fingers wrapped around a first edition of a Winnie The Pooh book that Adam Young had so graciously gifted the shop when he rethreaded reality. 

“She’s not happy.” It’s not an accusation, just an observation, but it still feels like one. Crowley winces and grits his teeth where he leans up against the counter. 

“Of course she’s not. She’s been through a lot. No miracle can bring her back from that.” Crowley mutters, a frown twisting his lips. 

“Of course not. But she…” Aziraphale purses his lips as he stirs the hot cocoa, brows furrowed.  
  
“Isn’t there more we can do?” He presses and Crowley comes to the realization that the angel is feeling _lost_. 

There is a beat of silence, Crowley shifting his weight uncomfortably and taking his hands from his pockets to cross his arms over his chest. 

“I was thinking about moving,” he admits, finally, quietly, refusing to look over at the angel. The spoon stops the soft clinking against the sides of the mug, stilling. “I don’t think my flat is good for her. And I can’t raise her here - you’ve not got enough living space, angel.” He sighs, moving a hand to push it through his hair. 

“Somewhere with more space and out of the city. Away so that maybe it stops reminding her, as well,” Crowley continues, dropping his hand back down to have his arms crossed again. 

“You want to leave London?” Aziraphale sounds-- odd. Crowley thinks he detects a bit of disbelief, but mostly the question is flat. 

“I think it might be best for her. Besides, it was only a base anyway. Not like I’m _that_ attached to the flat,” Crowley murmurs, doesn’t say _I came to London because you were here._ He shrugs his shoulders, glances over at the angel. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale starts, and then frowns. “I thought you liked London.” 

_I like you,_ comes the desperate thought as it always does. 

“It made the Arrangement easier, angel. It’s a nice enough city, some good memories, but memories can be made anywhere. We have thousands of years of them.” Crowley points out, voice low. He sighs heavily. “It’s only a thought right now. I haven’t decided.” He taps a toe against the floor restlessly in the quiet that follows. 

“Where would you go?” Aziraphale _finally_ asks. 

Crowley turns his gaze on the angel, searching his blank expression for some sort of sign. 

“I don’t know yet. Thought maybe you would help us look for something suitable. Three bedrooms, I’d think. You’d be welcome any time, stay as long as you like.” _Come with us. Please._

Aziraphale’s blank expression breaks and does something odd. His eyes widen a little and then he goes-- his eyes get a bit dewy and fond. It should make Crowley want to flee or squirm, but it only makes some of his tension bleed away. 

“As long as it has some space for bookshelves.” Aziraphale’s voice is just as quiet as Crowley’s is, and that makes Crowley swallow thickly. This feels… important. He’s not sure what he’s missing, but it’s significant. He’ll dream about this later, he knows it. 

“Course,” Crowley begins, lips parted to say something else--

“Mr. Crowley?” 

Crowley starts and breathes a sigh, turning his head to glance towards the doorway leading into the other room. “Cue for cocoa, then,” he murmurs, giving the angel a small smile. The angel who is currently staring at him in a way he’s only seen a couple of times before. 

Aziraphale offers up the mug and their fingers brush when Crowley takes it. 

“When I said to help us find a place, I meant one that’s inhabitable,” Crowley says, and he has to raise it a bit, sea breeze buffeting his ever growing hair into his face. 

Lyra is already off - she charges at a group of seabirds that take off with a flurry of feathers and the sound of wings beating. His own wings ache faintly as if they want to follow and he pushes it aside as he usually does, eyes tracking her path to make sure she doesn’t trip over any stray rocks. 

“We just haven’t worked our magic yet,” Aziraphale says with promise. 

Crowley raises a brow and turns his gaze back towards the decrepit cottage in front of them. It leans a bit to the side as if its very structure is buckling under the weight of time.[15] Crowley wants to say that he doesn’t think even _their_ miracles could bring it back, but Aziraphale’s got a _gleam_ in his eye. 

It makes them twinkle and Crowley has to let out a heavy sigh because he knows he won’t be winning this conversation. He reaches up and pulls his hair into a bun - it’s far too small, but he’s been growing it out proper. He follows Aziraphale towards the front door and grimaces when it creaks open. 

They could get the place for basically nothing, even with all the land attached to it, because the cottage would be a lost cause to anyone human. 

They are, however, _not_ human. 

Crowley ducks inside after Aziraphale, briefly wants to say something about discorporation and the fact that it wouldn’t be easy to get back now-- 

Crowley doesn’t; instead he watches Aziraphale reach out to brush his fingers over the crumbling drywall. It’s molded and disintegrating - whoever built the place hadn’t made it to last. 

“Aziraphale…” It’s slow, a bit pained - he doesn’t want to be the one to be sensible here, but what could they possibly _do_ with a place like this? 

Aziraphale turns his head, meeting Crowley’s gaze over his shoulder - just for a moment. And then he snaps. 

There’s a brief sting of divine energy that ripples through the cottage. It’s not a small scale miracle, not at all. It rights the walls, makes the whole cottage stand at attention. Drywall becomes wood, though painted white and pristine. Crowley shudders and breathes out slowly. 

“It has potential, my dear,” Aziraphale says gently, and Crowley fully intends to argue just how much work it will be when laughter rings outside of one of the broken windows. It floats into the empty space, filling it, and Crowley is helpless but to follow it outside. 

Lyra is climbing to her feet with a grin - she must have tripped while chasing the birds and Crowley wants to check on her immediately, but she only stumbles a bit before taking off into a run once more. To interfere in that moment would disturb this strange joy that he can’t _feel_ the way he used to, but knows is there. 

Footsteps shuffle behind him and that angelic presence hovers beside him, just behind his shoulder. 

“My dear,” He starts, and Crowley has already surrendered. Whatever Aziraphale asks from him - he would twist himself up until he was unrecognizable to give the angel absolutely anything he requested. “Don’t you think she looks happy?” 

It’s a question that makes Crowley’s heart shiver behind the cage of his ribs, trembling like wounded wildlife. 

The demon parts his lips to speak when a warm hand lands on his elbow. Aziraphale squeezes gently and Crowley forgets that bodies need to breathe. He wants to say more, wants-- He _wants_. 

“Mr. Fell!” 

The moment is broken and Crowley watches as Aziraphale turns his attention away, surprise clear in his gaze. It becomes soft immediately after and Crowley’s heart melts as the angel steps behind him out onto the slightly-less-rickety-than-when-they-arrived stairs. 

“Be there in a minute, my dear,” the angel calls, and if Crowley hadn’t planned on folding before, he is now. There’s no way he could say no to this, not when he can imagine Aziraphale picking his way through a garden to get to Lyra. 

Picking out furniture is an _experience_. 

Crowley wants sleek, black things. Aziraphale wants antiques - the tackier, the better it seems. And Lyra? Well, Crowley can forgive her because she’s too young to have her aesthetic downpat, but her choices seem to be based on _can I sink three inches into the cushions like the chair is trying to eat me?_

Crowley very firmly put his foot down against _that_ particular notion.

The first piece of furniture they acquire isn’t actually a couch - it’s a bed. Lyra sees it and the way her face lights up-- 

Crowley is helpless but to follow her, her hand grasping at his own. “Mr. Crowley, can I?” She asks just as she had before sitting on any of the other furniture, and her voice is so full of awe. Such small things make humans so amazed - Crowley never really tires of it. 

“Be careful,” he tells her, but lets her hand go so that she can clamber up onto the mattress. She’s a bit clumsy, but she’s aware enough to not knock any of the pillows off or muss up the blanket the shop has set up on top. She perches on the edge, swinging her legs just a little. 

Four posters are terrible, Crowley wants to claim, but Lyra looks at home there. Maybe, just maybe, if he feels frisky they can DIY a bit and add a curtain that goes all around the bed.[16]

Fairy lights. 

His mind is getting carried away with him and he’s grateful when Aziraphale steps up beside him, peering at the bed and then stepping to the side as if trying to find the best angle for it. He finally nods to himself and seems fairly pleased. 

“I do believe we’ve found the first piece for the house, haven’t we?” The angel says, and _smiles_. It’s one of those wide, pleased ones that make the corners of his eyes crinkle. Crowley’s breath catches and he nods a bit, trying to keep a straight face as Lyra cheers. 

Crowley’s composure breaks and he finds a small smile tugging at his lips, too, and instead of swooping closer to the angel he steps in to pick Lyra up. He gives a soft grunt - she’s always been heavier than she looked.[17]17

Aziraphale brushes his hand over Crowley’s elbow and Crowley tightens his grip on Lyra so as not to drop her, heart short-circuiting for a moment. 

“I’ll be right back, dears. I’m going to get a bit of help.” With that the angel slips away, Crowley watching him go, unconsciously swaying side to side as he cradles Lyra in his arms. 

“Mr. Crowley?” Lyra murmurs and Crowley turns to look at her reluctantly, taking his gaze off the angel as he tries to politely wave down one of the employees. 

“You’re really going to let me live with you? Forever?” It’s not the question he expects and he blinks at her in surprise, lips parting. 

This is _not_ the conversation he thought he’d be having in the middle of an antique furniture shop. 

“I.” Crowley comes up short and tries to find a way to explain his actions - find a way to explain that he’s been cut loose. There’s no more lines in the sand that he can’t step over. There’s no more _limits_ on how good or bad he can be. He can now do as he pleases. 

“Yes,” he says, finally, and moves his (mostly) free hand to straighten out her blouse a bit. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Lyra doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Her gaze keeps bouncing around the store, lingering on Aziraphale a couple of times before darting away. 

“Not yours,” she mumbles, slowly, voice quiet. 

“Sure you are.” Crowley retorts, albeit gently. “At least, you are now. I adopted you, Lyra, and for all intents and purposes you’re _my_ child. Okay? And I’m gonna take care of you.” 

Lyra doesn’t say anything for a minute, but she finally turns and wraps her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. 

She doesn’t say thank you. She doesn’t protest. She doesn’t ask about her mom. What she _does_ ask is - “What’s ‘for all intents and purposes’ mean?” 

Crowley _loves_ her. 

Crowley’s flat starts to get treated as a sort of in-between. 

Aziraphale comes to visit every other day, if not every day. It’s sort of become a tradition to share dinners - one the angel puts into place the moment that they close on the cottage.[18]

Crowley and Aziraphale take turns making trips out to the cottage to do a bit of work on it. The throw pillows on the couch find themselves fairly disgruntled with each visit as they change from a dark blue to match the living room rug to a cream colored tartan. It becomes a truce when Crowley finally leaves one pillow tartan and one dark blue. It feels tacky, the mismatch, but Crowley can’t say that he regrets it when Aziraphale joins them for dinner and practically preens. The next visit reveals that Aziraphale left the blue there. It’s-- nice. Even if they bicker over small, pointless things like what color the wall trim should be. 

It’s a blessing to be able to argue about such small things. 

It could be the world ending, after all, so Crowley is _infinitely_ grateful he gets to hear Aziraphale fussing about where to place the bed rather than what to do about the _Antichrist_. 

They don’t have dining room furniture yet when Lyra tearfully begs to have dinner _at home_.[19]

So they drive to South Downs and have a picnic on the floor of a half furnished cottage. 

Crowley insists they could just sit on the couch, but Aziraphale is the one to put together the picnic. 

It’s not something that goes entirely over Crowley’s head, either. 

He remembers that exchange; how could he not? Aziraphale bathed in that red and pink light, the way he’d made Crowley’s chest crack open, traitorous heart leaping for the angel. 

They have a picnic on the cottage floor and Lyra seems to be soothed. It’s enough for Crowley. It has to be. 

Lyra, who seems to have exhausted herself over the course of the day with two separate occasions of crying, leans further and further into Crowley’s space until she’s awkwardly slumped against him halfway through dessert. Her eyes are heavy and she’s limp, which will make picking her up even more of a task. 

To his surprise, he doesn’t even have to try. 

Aziraphale finishes up the last of the food and stands, carefully picking Lyra up. 

He doesn’t strain at all from what Crowley sees and Crowley _forgets_ sometimes. 

Aziraphale used to be a soldier. He led a battalion. He wielded a flaming sword - Heaven didn’t give those out to just anyone. 

Crowley watches him carry Lyra to her bedroom - it’s sparse. Her bed sits in the middle of the room, isolated. The walls are painted and dried by this point, but they hadn’t cleaned up all of the mess just yet. 

It takes Crowley a long moment to heft himself to his feet, beginning to clean up the mess that their little picnic created. 

Crowley starts thinking. It was always dangerous for him and yet here he was, thinking. Lots as he folded up the blanket and set it aside, the miraculously clean dishes tucked away into the basket.[20]

Crowley can vaguely hear Aziraphale’s voice, but he doesn’t follow it as much as he wants to. He instead busies himself with taking the basket to the kitchen. He settles it on the counter - a dark granite that he chose after a small argument. He won that one fairly quickly being that he would be the one most often in the kitchen. 

The least he can do, Crowley thinks, is get Aziraphale a nice drink for - 

For all of this. 

He quite suddenly has a bottle of Aziraphale’s favorite in hand, pouring them both half full glasses as the angel wanders out of Lyra’s bedroom, looking terribly soft. It’s unfair, truly. 

Aziraphale has always been soft, addictive strength and Crowley was no better than a moth drawn to a lamp light - risking being burnt to bask in his glory. 

Though - 

He feels less at risk now as Aziraphale pads across the room placing himself into Crowley’s space. 

“Here.” Crowley speaks quietly, keeps himself contained to let Lyra rest. The demon offers the angel a glass and Aziraphale takes it with a grateful look, something else buried in those blue eyes that Crowley’s not sure he’s ready to try to dig up. 

He _cannot_ risk ruining whatever is happening. 

“Thank you, my dear,” the angel murmurs, and takes a small sip, brushing their shoulders together as they stand in their cottage’s small kitchen. 

Crowley’s heart threatens to beat right out of his birdcage chest - his fingers nearly shake with the ache to reach out and touch. 

He takes a sip of the wine and breathes. 

They finish moving into the South Downs cottage on a warm summer night.[21]

Aziraphale wipes sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief - patterned in his signature tartan - while Crowley shakes out his arms. 

The cedar bookshelf settles in nicely against the wall of Aziraphale’s bedroom - it’s the third in the set that they bought from an antique dealer just outside of Soho.[22] Truthfully, it wraps the room up nicely. It even matches the bed frame and headboard that Aziraphale settled on. It’s all very warm. Cozy. Reminiscent of how the bookshop looked before it had been absolutely overloaded with books. 

Crowley is aware that it will someday reach that amount of chaos in this room, but as long as he is around he could at least _attempt_ to help the angel keep a handle on it all. 

The demon slumps up against the wall to catch his breath for a moment, lips twitching toward a smile when a shrill giggle carries through the house along with the sound of the back door opening. 

Crowley pushes himself off the wall, giving a slight nod to Aziraphale as he passes the angel to head outside as well. 

The stars twinkle overhead and Crowley watches as Lyra runs into the garden he’d been trying to cultivate. The plants were half decent, well on their way to really _getting there_ \- though they needed more… encouragement. 

“You know it’s nearly time for dinner,” Crowley calls, and can only grin when Lyra laughs and hides behind one of the bushes. Moon flowers - ones that are open and full in the thick July heat. 

“You’re too tired to catch me,” the munchkin declares, ducking away from his hands and darting out of reach. 

“Oh, am I now?” Crowley arches a brow. “I feel you’re underestimating me a bit there, miss.” He says it haughtily just to pull another laugh out of her, following as she darts further out past the gardens and looming leaves. 

The land past the garden was still clear, just rolling grassy hills and the sky above. 

Here, on a clear summer night this far from a city, the night sky was a _wonder_. The restless energy buzzes under Crowley’s skin and he catches up to his girl, scooping her into his arms with a grunt. 

“You’re lucky I adore you so.” He informs her as he hefts her up onto his shoulders, letting her settle there. Hands rest in his red hair, shaggy with growth, curling around his ears. 

“Have they always looked like that?” Lyra asks, quietly, and Crowley hums as he adjusts his hands on her legs to keep her steady. She really is heavier than he estimates every single time - it’s a miracle in itself that he hasn’t learned that yet. 

“That’s how they _should_ look,” Crowley tells her, voice adjusting to fit the mood as he looks up as well. “Cities and their lights dull them out, make them almost invisible.” 

Lyra makes a soft noise of acknowledgement and although Crowley can’t see her face, he has a feeling that he knows what expression she’s wearing. The curious one with the slight tilt as she observes and silently makes her mind up about something. 

“I like them.” Lyra pats the top of his head carefully - knowing better than to tug too hard at his hair. 

“I do, too. I used to know them all, you know. Every last one.” Crowley cannot keep the wistful tone out of his voice, but she seems perfectly content to listen and that’s enough for him. He turns them, starting back towards the cottage as he tells her about constellations - some that were lost to history, ones that he held dear in his heart because _someone_ had to care to remember them. 

Lyra listens the whole time with rapt attention. 

Crowley pretends not to see Aziraphale watching from the kitchen window as they approach, carefully wrangling her down from his shoulders onto her own two feet, letting her take off inside. 

He follows at a more sedate pace, glancing back at the sky one last time before retreating inside. 

If there’s suddenly a few glowing stars stuck to the walls of Lyra’s room when Crowley tucks her in that night, he doesn’t mention anything to the angel - and the angel doesn’t mention a thing to him. 

It’s early August when school starts in town. 

Crowley drives Lyra there every morning and picks her up right on the dot every afternoon. Sometimes Aziraphale tags along, sometimes he doesn’t - it depends on how fresh his mug of cocoa is and which book he settled in with beforehand. 

It’s good. 

It’s _good_.

That’s the issue of course - nothing good ever really lasts, or so they say. 

Two weeks into school, Lyra gets sick. 

It starts out harmless enough. Sniffles, a bit of a sore throat - Crowley can handle those for the most part. They’re very human issues, but ones he’s treated before. 

On the second day, however, Lyra wakes up with a fever and Crowley _panics_. 

Things are better now, he knows, but fever for so long was a touch and go illness - it once meant life or death and even _knowing_ she had one put his teeth on edge. 

Aziraphale calls the doctor and they have a house visit.[23]

It’s a virus, they get told as if it should be comforting. Fluids. Gentle foods. Lyra should get over it in a few days. She’s utterly miserable and Crowley can do nothing for her. Perhaps he could have once, when he held a bit of the light of creation in his hands - was given the gift to make from nothing. He might have been able to heal back then. 

Now he is cold and void of light, can only hold her hand and brush his down her back when she coughs her way through wheezing fits. 

Lyra sweats the fever out sometime towards the morning and Crowley leaves her room feeling ragged and utterly exhausted. He barely spares a glance at Aziraphale’s armchair - where he knows the angel is sitting - before flopping down onto the couch with a groan. 

It takes a few minutes for Crowley to hear Aziraphale closing his book. The angel makes his way over to the couch and although Crowley listens closely, he doesn’t open his eyes. Can’t, really, feels made of lead. 

A gentle hand brushes his hair away from his face and immediately Crowley turns into it. It’s irresistible - Aziraphale smells of sweets, old books, and _home_. 

“What are you doing?” Crowley eventually mumbles and Aziraphale merely hums at him. The next thing he knows, his head is lifted and then pillowed on a warm-- thigh? Thigh. That’s Aziraphale’s thigh. 

“Stop worrying so much, my dear.” The angel speaks for Crowley only. “Truly. She’ll be quite alright - the doctor said so. Just a cold. Her fever’s broken and she’s breathing better. Lyra will be back on her feet in no time.” Fingers thread through his growing hair - it’s reached his jawline now, the ends curling in ever so slightly. 

Crowley hates to admit that it helps, that it gets him to relax, that he can _sleep_ listening to the angel’s voice. 

Lyra is restless in the morning - she’s still ill, but she’s clearly feeling much better than the day before. 

Crowley pretends that his hands don’t shake in relief. 

Humans are so awfully, terribly, _utterly_ fragile and she is so young. He cannot - 

He’s not ready. 

Aziraphale hovers close to him all through the day, until the afternoon when Crowley shoos him away, waving off his offers to stay with Lyra for a bit. 

Crowley needs to _breathe_. 

So he goes looking through the extra bookshelf that had been installed in the living room - 

It’s a small book, certainly one of the smaller novels in Aziraphale’s collection, but it is well-loved. The pages are frayed and the cover bent in one corner. There’s a couple of water stains and the whole book is worn from use. 

Aziraphale would never stand for his own books to look that way, but the thing was - 

It wasn’t the angel’s. 

The book is the only fictional one that Crowley has ever kept - sure, the demon used to have plenty on plants and animals and the stars. To see the world how humans did was fascinating. 

This novel, _The Last Unicorn_ by Peter S. Beagle, was the only one that followed him wherever he went since he had picked it up in 1968. 

Crowley takes the book back to Lyra’s room, perches himself on the bed beside her. 

“I can’t go outside at all?” she complains, leaning against his side. He huffs a soft breath and slides one of his arms around her, pushing the novel open. 

“No.” Crowley answers simply. “You’re still getting better. Maybe tomorrow afternoon,” he demon tells her. “Though, I have to agree with Aziraphale for once - a good story can occupy the time. Just don’t tell him I said that.” 

Lyra smiles at him, despite the slight misery he can still feel in the air around her. He brushes his fingers over her temple, tucking one of her french braids over her shoulder before he clears his throat. 

(Art by [thenomansland](https://thenoman-sland.tumblr.com/))

“The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone,” Crowley reads aloud quietly, and the comfort of the words, the familiar tug at his heart functioned as an anchor for everything else to latch onto, to give him some space to breathe. Her warmth leaning against his side helps as well and before long, some of the jittery energy has left him, has settled somewhere low. 

It takes a couple of hours before Aziraphale risks reapproaching them. Crowley can hear him open the door to Lyra’s bedroom, but he doesn’t look up from his reading. 

“I think love is stronger than habits or circumstances. I think it is possible to keep yourself for someone for a long time and still remember _why_ you were waiting when she comes at last…” Crowley doesn’t falter, but it’s a near thing. The words always strike a chord, but it doesn’t help that he can feel the angel’s gaze heavy on him. 

Eventually the weight of celestial energy leaves and Crowley turns his focus on Lyra, who is nodding off against his shoulder. He swallows thickly - the finale will have to come another night. For now he closes the book and tucks her under the covers, brushing fingers over her forehead before he slips out of the room, book tucked under his arm securely. 

He isn’t expecting to find Aziraphale still in the living room, but he sits on the couch rather than his arm chair, apparently waiting up for the demon. Crowley doesn’t allow it to spark warmth in his chest just yet. 

He makes his way over, settling the book on the coffee table before dropping himself down on the couch beside the angel. 

“I thought you said you didn’t read?” Aziraphale asks, but Crowley knows the tone. He could slip out of this conversation if he wanted, divert it, change the subject, leave altogether, really - 

“I lied,” Crowley responds quietly, and it surprises himself, the honesty of it. He swallows, reaching a hand up to push some of his hair back from his face. 

“That’s a lovely book.” Aziraphale eventually murmurs, and brings the demon’s attention back to him. Crowley turns his head to look over at the angel, quite suddenly exhausted. A soft hum. 

“You know she’s human, Crowley. Things like this are going to happen.” Aziraphale continues and Crowley lets him, arms wrapping loosely around his waist. “We do not know how much time we will have.” 

“No.” Crowley agrees, eventually, and his voice is a rasp in the back of his throat despite his best attempts to clear the lump that had formed there. “But I--” A pause. “I will not apologize for being upset. She’s _mine_ ,” he murmurs, brows furrowing as he turns his head away from the angel. 

And this here - 

This is something the angel had ripped from beneath him before. He isn’t going to allow that again - “I _love_ her. You’ve got to understand that by now, angel.” He _breathes_. “You’ve got to.” A whisper. 

They are still as they sit beside each other on the couch for a long time. It has to be past midnight when the angel moves. 

Aziraphale reaches out tentatively, crossing the last of the space between them with a shaking hand, and Crowley does his best not to flinch when those soft fingers brush his jaw. 

The demon trembles, closing his eyes firmly as the angel carefully plucks the sunglasses off his face, revealing his eyes - or it would have if he’d had them open. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts and the sound of it could have broken him into a thousand pieces. Hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth. “ _Crowley_ . My _dearest_.” 

_That_ does break some part of him. He sags into the hands, nuzzling at them helplessly, still trembling as he does so. 

“Angel.” It’s hardly even there, lost to the air between them, air that no longer exists as Aziraphale leans in and presses a kiss to his lips. 

Finally - 

_Finally_ \- 

Finally, Crowley is _home_.

Somewhere in South Downs, a little girl plays in a garden. The sky is painted vibrant - gold and violet and a hot pink reminiscent of the now filthy dress she wore. Someday, she will grow up. Someday, she will grow old and frail and no longer be able to chase the frogs that give disgruntled croaks with every near miss of her grubby hands. Someday, she’ll return to the dirt and mud that she kicks up in her delight.

But right now, she’s here. 

She’s alive and young and wild - 

She’s pointing at the first visible star and squealing for a demon, one who steps off the porch to chase her down. He scoops her into his arms and settles her on his shoulders to get her closer to the open sky, a sky that calls for him in a song that he can no longer sing - 

But he doesn’t need to, not when an angel steps out onto the grass to watch them with a soft smile, blue eyes crinkling at the edges, exuding so much love that even the demon could feel the faintest of echoes in the air around him. 

Whatever can die is beautiful -

more beautiful than a unicorn,

who lives forever,

and who is the most beautiful creature in the world.

Do you understand me?

_Peter S. Beagle_

**_The Last Unicorn_ **

* * *

1Aziraphale and Crowley never really talk about those nights, but he sees the look in the angel’s eyes. He knows that in some small way he carries some of Crowley’s sadness himself despite Crowley’s best efforts.Return to text

2 Demonic, of course. Return to text

3 Aziraphale’s fussiness is entertaining as it is frustrating sometimes. He loves it, though, it helps make up the wonderful bastard that he is. Return to text

4 A demonic miracle - her name was Claire Miller and she wasn’t going to pick up. Crowley trembles with rage - the scant memory he gathers from the girl in front of him is, to say the least, unpleasant. Return to text

5Which is surprisingly gentle, actually, and Aziraphale will gush about it if one took a chance to ask. Return to text

6Surprisingly Aziraphale met him with that tone more often than not - Crowley attributes it to part of why he fell so quickly a second time. It’s hardly fair to expect him not to grow impossibly fond of someone who lights up at his presence. Perhaps the only someone who does, actually. Return to text

7Dreadful fucking things. Crowley hates them. Return to text

8Crowley got it for him ages ago - it’s a dinosaur by now, but Aziraphale’s been doing his taxes on it so it’s got to be in working condition. Return to text

9Well, research and creating some needed documents Return to text

10He has the strangest urge to press his hand over it like a lady from one of Aziraphale’s Regency novels. He doesn’t, of course. Return to text

11 He expects it to always be charged, so it is. Return to text

12 Crowley frozen because he remembers this look on the faces of children in the face of the plague - cheeks smudged with dirt as they watched the doctors kneel by their parents, by their siblings. He thinks that perhaps Aziraphale just didn’t know what to say. Not necessarily untrue, but in the moment, Aziraphale’s attention is not trained on the mourning child, rather on the demon who is mourning in a way that is distinctly not demonic. Return to text

13 He may or may not have banished a certain statue elsewhere before she could see. Some art was best appreciated when one was older, he suspected. Return to text

14 And, perhaps, he wishes someone had answered his questions. Perhaps he wishes that someone would have given him some kind of idea. Return to text

15 Crowley knows that feeling well. Sometimes it weighs him down until he must lay himself in a bed and get lost for a few days in what is usually nothingness. He does not like to think about the days that are not nothingness - nightmares were too human and uncomfortable. Return to text

16 Crowley will never admit that he watches DIY and home improvement shows, but should he ever be caught at least he can defend that he came up with the damned things. Return to text

17 The first time Crowley had picked her up, she had fallen asleep on his uncomfortable office couch while he researched some things. (Like schools and what he needed to make her life good.) Crowley had to pick her up to move her to bed and she’d curled her arms around his shoulders half asleep and Crowley came to the conclusion that he’d die for her. Return to text

18“ _We’re going to be living together. It’s only proper to share an important meal every day._ ” Aziraphale had told him over the first shared dinner where they sat across from each other, Lyra on the side between them. When Crowley had relented and agreed, he’d done that pleased little shoulder wiggle and Lyra had smiled in a way he wasn’t entirely sure he’d seen before.Return to text

19 She had a terrible nightmare the night before - Crowley couldn’t get out of her what it was about but she’d been shaken all day, easily driven towards fear that made his skin prickle and tears that made his own chest tight.Return to text

_20 _What Lyra didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her - especially such a small thing as a miracle to clean the dishes after a night in with family. (And _oh_ family was a whole other subject.)Return to text__

__21 _Save for Aziraphale’s books, but Crowley _wasn’t_ going to carry boxes of those heavy tomes - the angel could miracle them in and therefore Crowley considered it all complete.Return to text__ _

___22 _Crowley remembers passing the little shop with some of the furniture displayed outside by the road, remembers the way that Aziraphale had reached over and wrapped his hand around Crowley’s forearm as if it was a common casual touch. They’d not stopped since then, only growing in occurrence.Return to text__ _ _

____23 _The doctor doesn’t do house visits - he wonders later what possessed him to leave the clinic early and drive all the way out of town for two strange hermits.Return to text__ _ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't turn out exactly how I wanted it, but I'm at least proud of myself for getting it finished. I hope y'all enjoyed it!
> 
> This may or may not be the last fic I do for the Good Omens fandom for quite a while, to be quite honest. I've lost my inspiration for the dears, no matter how much I absolutely adore them.


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